‘And in favour of Reece Bower,’ said Cooper.
25
For a few minutes Diane Fry stood and watched young Eastern European men and women file in and out of the Zabka supermarket in Shirebrook.
After a while she walked inside and looked at the shelves of sauerkraut and sour cabbage. All the adverts by the door were in Polish. A notice said ‘Zakaz — Spozywania Alkoholu w Obrebie Sklepu — Consumption of alcohol prohibited in the shop.’ Shelf after shelf of tins and packages had unfamiliar names. From what she could hear, there seemed to be few British shoppers around, and none of them entering the polski sklep.
She felt conspicuous. Though she hadn’t opened her mouth, she had the feeling that everyone knew she wasn’t Polish. She didn’t feel comfortable staying any longer. She wasn’t planning on buying anything anyway.
Jamie Callaghan was waiting for her when she came out of the shop.
‘I just wanted to remind you,’ he said, ‘according to the files, Geoff Pollitt also owns four other properties in and around Shirebrook. They’re all HMOs.’
‘It sounds as though they’re due for a visit.’
Callaghan looked puzzled. ‘If Pollitt is a right-wing extremist, why is he renting out property to migrant workers?’
‘I guess money overcomes prejudice,’ said Fry.
‘He’s an unpleasant piece of work, isn’t he?’
‘You can say that again.’
‘What a pity we can’t connect him to the Krystian Zalewski murder.’
‘There’s time yet.’
Fry watched a couple of hatchbacks slowly touring the marketplace, then driving out again past the tattoo studio on Market Street.
‘What kind of vehicle does Geoff Pollitt own?’ she asked.
Callaghan checked his notebook. ‘He has a white Saab registered to him. He also drives a plain blue Renault Trafic panel van. He uses that for his business, but there’s no signage on it.’
Fry pursed her lips as she looked at the deserted marketplace. There weren’t any children at this time of day, and even the cat was missing. She noticed a young man wearing jeans and a hoodie knocking on the door of Pollitt’s shop, glancing over his shoulder as he did so. After a moment, the door was opened and he slipped inside. What could he be buying in that shop?
Of course, Geoff Pollitt was probably just inviting people in to look at the bloodstain on his ceiling. She wondered how much he was charging for the privilege.
The thought made her feel sick. There was prurience, and there was exploitation. And Geoff Pollitt had crossed the line. But then, according to the intelligence on him, Mr Pollitt had crossed the line several times.
Fry left Jamie Callaghan still canvassing shoppers at the polski sklep with the assistance of a Polish-speaking community worker. That should keep him busy for some time.
Geoff Pollitt answered the door of his shop when she knocked. She’d wondered if there was some secret knock, but whatever she’d done seemed to have worked. Pollitt’s face peered at her with no recognition at first, then disappointment, then irritation.
‘I’m busy,’ he said.
‘The shop seems to be closed, Mr Pollitt,’ said Fry. ‘What are you doing, stocktaking?’
‘Maybe.’
‘It’s all right. You can lock the door again once you’ve let me in.’
He grumbled to himself as he took the security chain off the door and opened it a few inches further.
‘It’s not very convenient.’
‘That’s a shame. But I’m sure your community spirit will overcome any inconvenience.’
‘Community spirit,’ sneered Pollitt. ‘That’s a joke.’
‘I’m not laughing.’
‘I’ve kept a diary, you know,’ said Pollitt. ‘A record of all the incidents. All the East Europeans who’ve been up in court. Years of it, all logged.’
Ah, so Geoff Pollitt was the record keeper DCI Mackenzie had referred to. All the court cases and newspaper reports cut out and kept in a scrapbook. That shouldn’t have been a surprise to her, but it was. She hadn’t pictured him reading newspapers.
‘Did you know that eight million people living in this country were born abroad? Getting on for a million of them are Poles. Polish is the second most spoken language in England. You’ve seen all the signs written in Polish. You’d think you were in Warsaw.’
‘Have you ever been to Warsaw?’
‘Don’t talk daft. Before we had the protection order, gangs were constantly hanging around in the marketplace. They intimidated women and old people. There were groups of men sitting on walls and benches and under the trees drinking all day. It frightened a lot of folk off from coming down into town. It’s bad for business. Shopkeepers were having to clear up cans and bottles every morning, and it was all Polish booze. Drinking in public is part of their culture, the Poles and Lithuanians. They even have sessions in the canteen at the distribution centre now to teach them about English laws, about our culture and the way to drink alcohol.’
‘Is that a good idea?’ said Fry. ‘I’m not sure our culture and levels of alcohol consumption are much of an example for anyone.’
But Pollitt was in full flow. It was if she’d turned on a tap of bile and now she couldn’t stop it.
‘Why should folk here put up with it?’ he said, ignoring her comment.
‘With what?’
‘Antisocial behaviour. Isn’t that what you lot call it? The fact of the matter is, they’re making noise, they’re smoking weed, they’re threatening people with knives,’ he said.
‘Can you give me an example?’
‘Example?’
‘A specific incident when someone was threatened with a knife by a Polish worker. It was reported to the police, surely? But we don’t have anything on record.’
‘Folk here don’t always talk to the police,’ said Pollitt. ‘They haven’t always helped. Like by trying to hide the identity of foreign criminals.’
Fry knew the notorious incident he was referring to. The previous year, Derbyshire Constabulary had gone to court in an attempt to withhold the identity of a young Polish man convicted of a sexual offence in his own country, because they feared reprisals against him in Shirebrook. His offence had only come to light after he was fined for breaching the ban on drinking in public.
On that occasion, the police argued that the rapid rise in the migrant population had created a deep-seated mistrust of foreign nationals among many of the local population, and that tensions were running high following incidents involving drunken Polish men, culminating in the stabbing of a British man and a knife attack on one drunken Pole by another. The judge had taken a different view, ruling that the young Pole was in no immediate danger. The man had left Shirebrook nevertheless. Maybe he felt the risk to his safety was greater than the judge suspected.
‘So you want to get rid of all the East Europeans?’
‘Aye. But that’s just the beginning,’ scowled Pollitt.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t need to spell it out. Everybody knows what’s going on. We’re just not allowed to say. We’re not supposed to speak the truth these days. So we say nothing and take action instead. That were always the way of it, right through history. Nobody takes any notice of ordinary people until we get out in the streets, smashing their windows and giving them a good kicking.’
‘So who’s next for a kicking after East Europeans? Black people? Muslims? Anyone who happens to be mixed race?’
‘Mixed race?’ spat Pollitt. ‘What does that mean? Nothing. It’s one of your mealy-mouthed words. Fact is, you’re either white or you’re not. Anything else is just pollution.’